


Pseudo Affiance

by ezlebe



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Ineptitude, Established Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, First Kiss, Flirting, Implied U-Hauling, M/M, Mutual Pining, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26902216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ezlebe/pseuds/ezlebe
Summary: “So didyouget your dream wedding?”Eddie visibly hesitates, then shakes his head while looking back down to the magazine. “No, it – it wasn’t… I didn’t have much decision. Like that. I kind of just showed up.”Richie stares for a beat, remembering sixteen-year-old Eddie’s talk about venues, themes, colors, hypoallergenic flora, and who knows what else. “That sucks.”“It is what it is,” Eddie mutters, turning a page with a small, not-so apathetic shrug. “It was years ago.”“Maybe the next one,” Richie says, kicking out and tapping at the toe of Eddie’s shoe with his boot.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 113
Kudos: 482





	1. Chapter 1

_“Do you ever think about getting married?” Eddie asks, flipping through the show book with a pursed mouth, brow furrowed in concentration for a beat before he looks up at Richie. “Like the wedding, I mean.”_

_“Uh,” Richie intones, gut tightening at the idea of Eddie at a wedding –_ having _a wedding. He wants to say something snappy, like maybe that he had no clue Eddie had such a romantic streak, or put on a fatherly Voice to say_ that sixteen is far too young to be thinking about marriage, young man, _but instead he just chokes at the sight of Eddie’s big eyes and earnest stare. “Um.”_

_“I think I’d like a – a one of these,” Eddie says, lifting the magazine to show a rough hewn trellis, so labeled underneath, with a mass of white flowers offset at a side. “But without like all the flowers, just normal plants – and maybe… in the mountains?”_

_Richie rolls his lips together, looking twice at the picture, back and forth from Eddie’s shy expression. “Cool.”_

_“Yeah?” Eddie says, visibly brightening, shifting on his elbows a little closer to better share the magazine. “Do you think so? I know everyone wants a church or whatever, but I like the idea of it outside.”_

_“Totally, I can see you underneath a little arch thing,” Richie says, reaching out to poke at the smiling groom in the picture. “Or like in a_ gazebo _.”_

_“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie snaps, face flushing, looking back down at the magazine with a little smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “But yeah.”_

_Richie nods a couple times, shifting on his belly while dropping his eyes back to his magazine, too. He thinks Eddie deserves a nice wedding, with a big, fancy cake and no gross flowers, happy under his trellis thing with… with someone he loves grinning back at him; he deserves to look like these people in all the pictures, excited and ecstatic, glowing bright in pure joy._

_“What about you?”_

_“Oh, uh, I guess…” Richie takes a breath, giving in to a brief, somewhat painful fantasy of being the one standing across from Eddie, holding both his hands and staring down at him in the middle of a mountain field. “The mountain thing sounds nice.”_

_Eddie blinks back, then suddenly his grin seems even wider. “Great.”_

* * *

“Shit, I’ve got even more in the back,” Bev says, dropping a stack of wedding magazines onto the table with a heavy oof and an exaggerated press of both hands against her lower back. “I just have to find them. And a bunch of swatches.”

“ _Swatches_ ,” Richie repeats, watching Bev spin back around on her heel to return to the closet.

Eddie makes a dubious noise at her back, then leans forward over the table and flips open an oversize binder to reveal an array of fabrics. He looks to Richie, other brow joining the first, and Richie can’t help but make an exaggerated grimace just to get the usual little huff and grin.

Richie reaches out and blindly pulls one of the magazines straight from the middle of the stack. He flips it open, pretending interest, at least until his eyes land on a wood trellis, bringing back a memory innocuous but appropriate and, maybe, a little precious. “So did you get _your_ dream wedding?”

“What?” Eddie looks up from grabbing his own magazine, face twisting like he thinks he’s being mocked, but isn’t sure if he should snark back or just be mad.

Richie forces a small shrug, shifting in his chair and wishing he wasn’t suddenly so uncomfortable. “Remember when my sister was getting married and we looked at all _her_ stuff, and you had this –”

“No,” Eddie interrupts, shaking his head hard with a short, odd clear of his throat and looking back down to the magazine. “No, it – it wasn’t… I didn’t have much decision. Like that. I kind of just showed up.”

Richie stares for a beat, remembering sixteen-year-old Eddie’s talk about venues, themes, colors, hypoallergenic flora, _and_ who knows what else, and feels a terrible ache beneath his sternum. “That sucks.”

“It is what it is,” Eddie mutters, turning a page with a small, not-so apathetic shrug. “It was years ago.”

“Maybe the next one,” Richie says, kicking out and tapping at the toe of Eddie’s shoe with his boot.

Eddie’s hand pauses mid-flip, then he exhales a snort. “Yeah. Sure. _Next one_.”

“Come on – hey, you still into this?” Richie turns the magazine around, showing off the picture of the couple posed in front of the Rockies under their trellis. “Destination mountain wedding?”

“Uh,” Eddie says, looking up with a blink and a marked pause. “I guess so?”

“This is… Aspen?” Richie says, looking back at the picture, lifting the magazine to squint at the little label on the picture. “Colorado? Isn’t that where you decided last time?”

“Yeah?” Eddie says, his voice pitching in apparent question, perhaps toward his own memory. “But uh, I think it was Telluride.”

Richie turns the page, then exhales a laugh, leaning back in his chair with a slump. “Oh hey, what about the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo? That’s technically in the mountains.”

“No,” Eddie says, his voice flat and final.

“A barn?”

“Maybe,” Eddie says, then pauses for a beat, ultimately humming lowly and almost suspicious. “Don’t tell me – it's still full of animals?”

“Doesn’t say,” Richie says, then peeks over the magazine, raising an eyebrow at a thought that has technically been bugging him for twenty-odd years. “So the outside isn’t too, like, dirty? You got kind of… bitchy about the Barrens.”

“I did not say I’d get married in the _Barrens_ ,” Eddie says sharply, his expression curling up in unabashed revulsion. “And, you know, it isn’t like that - it’s like there’s no fucking sewers or city shit. Just fucking fresh air and trees.”

“True,” Richie says, then slumps further in the chair, peering at the ceiling for a few seconds until an idea strikes him. “What about Alaska?”

Eddie is quiet a beat, then grunts skeptically, “Kind of far.”

“So’s Colorado,” Richie argues, gesturing with a pointed turn of his hand. “You’re on a flight, either way.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and goes quiet a beat, then sighs, a corner of his mouth lifting, “Like where?”

“I _dunno_ ,” Richie says, dropping the magazine in his hand and spreading out the other ones until a cover celebrating midnight sun catches his eye, and he takes it up with a low hum. He opens the magazine, flipping through pages – cruise, cruise, another cruise… _Aha_. “This one is on the top of a mountain.”

Eddie blinks at the picture. “Is it in like the middle of nowhere?”

“Maybe – look, wild goats,” Richie says, turning to the next page and briefly flashing the picture of said goats, then looking down again to peer across the glossy pictures.

“Goats,” Eddie repeats, in the same dubious tone he had asking about the barn.

“ _Wild_ ones,” Richie says, flipping to the next page and seeing a spread of moose and bear respectively, a river of salmon near the bottom, then an ad for a wildlife center tour. “I don’t think they’re at the ceremony.”

“Right,” Eddie says, markedly even more skeptical.

Richie looks back down, glancing through more pictures of happy couples in mountain settings, and finds himself pausing at a pair laughing on a rocky slope that leads to the ocean, an endless panorama of snowcapped mountains behind them across the bay. He clears his throat, as he turns the magazine around, “This one isn’t in a field, it’s on a beach, but there’s mountains _behind_ it.”

Eddie seems to study the picture, a particular furrow softly burrowing between his brows. “Oh. You like the ocean.”

“Uh, yeah,” Richie says, hearing an uneven laugh emerge from his throat an only barely managing not to wince. “I mean, this is a cold beach, but – ”

“Can short-list it,” Eddie says, looking back down to his own magazine, flicking to the next page tetchily while his voice abruptly rises in pitch. “But you’re not getting in that water – I refuse to relive the Chebeague Island incident.”

Richie blinks in bemusement, then tips back in his chair with a crack of laughter, remembering belatedly the events of his sister’s otherwise perfect ceremony. “I was fine!”

“You had hypothermia!” Eddie snaps, closing his magazine and swiftly rolling it up to whack at Richie’s leg.

“I did not,” Richie says, not bothering to avoid the swipes, but he does bring his arms up to mime a shiver around his shoulders. “I was just a little cold – ”

“You were fucking blue!” Eddie interrupts, voice rising ever further, “Your sister was so pissed I thought she was going to kill you – and then everyone fucking blamed me! Like I’m some goddamn stand in for impulse control. I will not be fucking going through that shit again, Richie!”

Richie puts his hands up, surrendering, “Okay, _okay_ – my wedding ruining days are over.”

“Glad to hear,” Bev interjects, emerging from the hall with another stack of magazines balanced precariously in her arms. “What are you two up to?”

“Alaskan wedding, my lady?” Richie says, picking up the magazine back up from the floor with a gesture at the cover.

“Ah,” Bev says, dropping the magazines with a thud on the table and stepping back to fold herself into the loveseat with a hum. She shakes her head a beat later, a small smile at the corner of her mouth. “Kind of cold for me. Ben was thinking Wayfarer’s Chapel.”

“Oh, was he,” Eddie says, leaning back in his chair with a noticeable turn up of his nose. “Shock.”

“He’s such a cliché, Bevvie,” Richie says, offering her a crooked smirk with a glance sideways, bobbing his eyebrows. “Some place has fancy wood and he’s got to go see.”

“Oh quiet, you assholes,” Bev says, dismissing them with a joking huff, reaching out and grabbing a magazine bearing a bright opal ring on the front. “It’s beautiful up there.”

“Not _Alaska_ beautiful,” Richie says, sotto voce, glancing sideways to catch Eddie’s eyes, who smirks back a beat before rolling them, paired with a glance toward Bev to show the expression was more about Ben than toward Richie. “Though I’ll give you the cold thing.”

“You better,” Bev says, brows going up while she starts flipping through the magazine with little more than theatrical consideration.

“I wish red hadn’t been ruined,” Eddie grumbles, flipping aggressively through his magazine before throwing it and grabbing another.

“I know,” Bev sighs, head tilting while she slowly pulls out the catalog of swatches from the stack, then exhaling a wheezy, exasperated sigh while opening it up. “I was thinking blue? Maybe a paler ocean-y blue, with some deep teal and brown, maybe cream, too? Kind of like the bedroom, honestly, but Ben looks so good with that sort of palette.”

“You guys and your fancy colors,” Richie says, clicking his tongue a beat, then looking up while a grin curls at his lips to gesture at a picture of some truly eye-catching table decor. “What about glitter and hot pink, Eds?”

“No,” Eddie says, flatly, seemingly making a point not to consider it, by the way he intently keeps his attention down at the magazine. “No colors you’re currently wearing.”

Bev agrees with a quiet huff and a pointed tilt of her head.

Richie glances down at his orange shirt with peonies and calico cats, his pink cargo shorts, then snorts a laugh. “Okay, killjoy, maybe darker? Maroon?” He says, shaking out the pages of his own magazine before throwing it onto the table. “Just like nix any matching balloons.”

Eddie curls his nose, glancing up under his brows. “No balloons of _any_ fucking color.”

Bev hums in question and shifts in her seat, knees switching sides, and a glance to her face shows her a little more curious than Richie is willing to confront. She raises her brows when she catches him looking, a quirk of a grin at the corner of her mouth, and he hastily drops his eyes back to an absolutely fascinating article from 2010 on Fall themes.

He’s betrayed by a rapid buzz from the table, oscillating in a beat that Eddie has multiple times made a point to mention was some sort of insult in Morse code. He’s got a special one for most of his contacts, supposedly just names, but Richie worked out a while ago that his own, at least, is different, though fuck knows what it is – he can only tell it repeats too quick for his full name.

“Damn it,” Eddie mutters, staring at the phone a quick beat, then looking up while he stands, glancing between Richie and Bev with a pressed grimace. “Shitbird replacement. Be right back.”

Bev clears her throat just as the latch closes with the patio door, dropping her catalog with a slap. “Richie Rich,” she says, turning her head and peering with an irritatingly perceptive light in her eyes. “Are you planning _your_ wedding?”

“No,” Richie says, determined to be neutral and forcing a shrug and glance down to turn a page – oh, what a creepy little strawman thing, definitely regret looking straight into its beady black eyes. “Eddie’s.”

Bev is quiet for a few beats, “Richie.”

“We’ve done it before,” Richie says, then freezes, briefly closing his eyes while a wash of the usual hot-cold embarrassment washes over him; okay, so that was probably the worst of his options to admit. “It’s not like a big deal.”

“You two planned your wedding before,” Bev says slowly, tone colored plainly with mirth and just a little bewilderment.

“Not _our_ wedding,” Richie says, reaching up and scrubbing a hand through his hair, sparing a quick glance to make sure Eddie is still firmly scowling at Ben’s potted herbs while gesturing angrily at whatever the peon is saying to him. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be used to it – the fact that people, just out in the open, will refer to his sad secret like it’s old news, which technically it is, _but_ that doesn’t make it any less disconcerting. “It was when my sister got married – like 1993? He just has a lot of opinions about this stuff, alright? And, apparently, she-who-shall-not-be-fucking-named didn’t let him choose shit.”

Bev glances to Eddie herself this time, expression wilting with a frown. “Oh.”

“And you know, he – ” Richie rolls his lips together, throwing the magazine and leaning back to slump in his chair. “He’s just really into it, so he should’ve gotten to have it be like what he wanted, even if he wasn’t like… into _her_ , really, I guess. But he deserved something, at least, even if it was just a day.”

“Yeah,” Bev says, nodding along while looking back to Richie, her smile slowly growing back, but smaller, more thoughtful. “You know what? I’m officially – ” She gestures flippantly, nodding again, “Making you my entourage.”

Richie blinks back, then raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

“Everything,” Bev says, shrugging while she picks up another magazine with a brightly haloed bride and a bold yellow dress. “You’re both basically unemployed, so why not.”

“Ouch,” Richie says, reaching up to clutch at his side like she’s just delivered a physical blow. “You know Eddie’s technically _retired_ , or whatever, with the stocks and… roths?”

Bev lifts her head again slowly, single brow going up her forehead.

“Oh, fuck off, Bevvie,” Richie says, shifting further down into the chair and glancing out the doors to settle in to watch Eddie ream out some idiot. “You don’t listen either.”

* * *

Eddie pauses behind the sofa later, a few hours after they get home, in the midst of a particularly lazy breakfast for dinner. He stays there a few seconds, silent and somewhat looming, but maybe he’s just watching Scratchansniff cowering against yet another singalong. “Would the honeymoon be there, too?”

Richie slowly looks over his shoulder, furrowing his brow at the cereal clutched in Eddie’s hand, then glancing to his slightly worrying neutral expression, and altogether sees little obvious explanation for the question. “Okay, uh, you’re gonna have to roll back into the station here and tell me where we’re going, Spaghetti Man.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, aggressively waving his Apple Cinnamon Cheerios. “Alaska, Richie.”

“Oh.” Richie has what he thinks is a sensible thought to ask Eddie why he’s asking _him_ , who of the two of them isn’t likely to be present, fairly distinct from the just as hypothetical wedding, but he gets caught up in a far less sensible fantasy that he is _absolutely_ going to be present at the honeymoon. “I – I guess it would depend on the season?”

“I don’t even know what people do in Alaska,” Eddie says, mouth pursing in thought, apparently determined to have this conversation. He leans against the back of the sofa. “Snowboard?”

“Fish… hike?” Richie guesses, raising his brows and remembering his single close brush with the state. “Cruises? I almost got a gig on Princess for a summer.”

Eddie frowns hard, expression promptly souring, “I hate cruises.”

“You don’t want a bit of norovirus, Eddie-Spagheds – just a taste?” Richie says, reaching backward awkwardly over the sofa and gesturing like he’s sprinkling something in Eddie’s Cheerio box. “You’re _supposed_ to be in your room for most of your honeymoon, you know.”

“Go choke, asshole,” Eddie says, nose scrunching and pointedly pulling the box away with a jerk.

Richie presses the top of head to the cushions to better blink up at Eddie, offering a shrug. “What about, uh, Hawaii – or oh, _Puerto Rico_? I know you’ve never been there.”

Eddie raises a brow, then tilts his head with a hum, leaning down against the sofa on an elbow and settling with a startlingly close tilt of his head in Richie’s direction. “You just like beaches and rum.”

“And bright colors,” Richie says, hearing his voice pitch embarrassingly close to cartoonish; Eddie, _is_ he going? Do you want Richie Tozier going on your honeymoon, Eddie? “And an island full of monkeys and, like, did you know El Yunque has its own chupacabra?”

“You made me listen to that podcast, dorkass,” Eddie says, brows furrowing theatrically while he offers a pressed mouth frown that’s factually just a cover for a smirk. “So I just wish I didn’t.”

“We could find it,” Richie says, gesturing out in the vague direction of the pool and deck, their tiny spattering of Ben-gifted succulents, and the outside beyond it. “Officially become monster hunters.”

“You know it’s just fucking dog with mange,” Eddie counters, tilting his head a little further, expression softening into a small smile across his mouth.

Richie grins back in return, finding himself typically caught in Eddie’s eyes, and realizes after another quiet moment that he could easily lift his chin forward to close the gap between them; he thinks Eddie might even be moving too, vacillating, though it could just be him balancing on the sofa. It’s a shame his mouth drops open first, because it is a traitor. “It uh, still counts.”

“Uh, I – _no_ , fuck off,” Eddie says, blinking suddenly and rapidly, moving away, back toward the kitchen island with the cereal still in hand. He coughs quietly, into the back of his other hand, then drops the box to the counter with a quiet thunk. “But Puerto Rico does sound nice. Not going near that fucking herpes monkey island, though.”

“Aw,” Richie intones, hoping Eddie somehow doesn’t hear the tremble in his voice over that syllable.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The groom?” The baker says, approaching the table with a markedly odd look crossing their face while glancing up and down Richie, hesitantly placing a piece of paper between Bev and him on the table.
> 
> “Uh, no,” Richie says, pointing toward Ben, and tries not to be offended when a look of understanding promptly crosses their face and they quickly round the other side of the table with their paper. He leans over into Eddie’s side, hoarsely whispering through a hand, “So am I not pretty enough to marry Bev?”
> 
> Eddie looks up from his phone and makes a show of studying him, eyes darting up as if to his glasses, then narrowing at his hair, then dropping to his chest and presumably the cake and cupcake patterned shirt he’s already mocked today. “No.”

Richie doesn’t expect much to come of being declared Bev’s _entourage_ , except maybe a bit for a tight ten somewhere, and certainly doesn’t expect to be invited to eat thirty types of cake, which is definitely going to be a bit. He mimes stuffing his face like the kid in Matilda after they’re led to the table, grinning back when Eddie snorts and reaches out to pretend at shoving a darker chocolate toward him.

“The groom?” The baker says, approaching the table with a markedly odd look crossing their face while glancing up and down Richie, hesitantly placing a piece of paper between Bev and him on the table.

“Uh, no,” Richie says, pointing toward Ben, and tries not to be offended when a look of _understanding_ promptly crosses their face and they quickly round the other side of the table with their paper. He leans over into Eddie’s side, hoarsely whispering through a hand, “So am I not pretty enough to marry Bev?”

Eddie looks up from his phone and makes a show of studying him, eyes darting up as if to his glasses, then narrowing at his hair, then dropping to his chest and presumably the cake and cupcake patterned shirt he’s already mocked today. “No.”

“Ouch,” Richie says, leaning back with an exaggerated pout directed toward Bev.

Bev just offers a crooked grin, then looks back up to the baker, who’s giving most of the presentation to a very convincingly fascinated Ben.

“So I’ve labeled all the samples and included this questionnaire – just a couple things you might want to think about, like tier decorations, toppers, frosting styles,” the baker says, leaning forward and gesturing to the paper set now between Bev and Ben; they briefly peek at Richie, then Eddie, before returning their attention to the other side of the table. “Let me know if you guys need anything and I’ll be back after you’ve had time to discuss!”

“Dang, Bevvie,” Richie says, peering over the spread of little cake slices, ranging from presumed pistachio green to a mystery pink, frosting cups from something purple to what looks like a red berry fudge. “You trying out half the place?”

“Yeah no, some of these are mine,” Eddie interjects, reaching out and separating about half the samples to the side with an assessing peer toward the labels. He looks to Bev briefly, wetting his lips, then oddly straight at Richie. “I just want us to try them.”

“I cannot believe this,” Richie says, making a show of crossing his arms, but mostly just a little bemused that Eddie is really taking his exercise in bogus wedding planning so far. “Only talking to half the entourage, Marsh!”

“You were filming that game show,” Eddie says, reaching out with a spoon when Ben offers a cup of red frosting.

Richie raises an eyebrow as Eddie pops the spoon in his mouth without so much as a question about flavor; great, so this is going to be one of _those_ trips. _Perfect_. He knows Eddie is being brave, giving a big _fuck you_ to both the ex-Mrs Ks, but he also really wishes Eddie would just get an allergy test. It’s not like Eddie was the only one who grew up thinking random foods could kill him – Richie was like right there, too, keeping his own plate free of tree nuts and shellfish.

“It’s called a _panel_ _show_ , love,” Richie corrects belatedly, in a Voice he calls improved British Guy, Posh Edition, while making a show of spreading his hands as if underling the term.

Eddie hums flatly, pointedly offering Ben and Bev a dubious look. “He wins stupid prizes at the end; it’s a game show.”

“Do not bullshit me, Kaspbrak, you love that roomba,” Richie says, though he might concede it is _maybe_ half a game show, when he takes in that element, but the time for letting Eddie win is not now; he might later when he’s brought the next random robotic appliance home for him to coo over. “You named it.”

Eddie snorts outright, insistently waving a lavender-stained spoon. “Pretty sure it’s cleaning your fucking house.”

“Oh, with your Starlet character on it?” Ben asks, mouth half full of cake, and his expression colors when he seems to realize it, proceeding to go silent while finishing chewing as his shoulders hunch just a measure. “…Beverly almost threw up laughing at the joke about your socks.”

“Only because I knew the actual punchline was Eddie,” Bev says, picking up a piece of assumed pistachio and offering it as some apparent appeasing gesture. “I’m sorry, hun, but we all know you fired the cleaner.”

“I did not, shut up,” Eddie says, his voice pitching into the usual defensiveness of this decision, stabbing at Bev’s offered cake with a flat press of his mouth. “I just dropped their contract to bimonthly, christ.”

Richie looks at Eddie’s choices while pretending not to listen for wheezes; he can’t remember if they’ve experimented with pistachio yet, but Eddie so far isn’t dying. He hums a bar of a nameless song as he reaches out, grabbing the bright yellow cake closest to him with what looks like red jam holding together the layers. “And, what’s _this_?” he says, lifting the Eddie-side sample with a narrow study of the layers and a brief whiff of what is markedly tangy. “Lemon?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, nodding while scooting his chair in a way that slides his knee against Richie’s thigh, solid and startling, then inexplicably remaining firm. “The jam is raspberry. I also got – ” He starts gesturing at the other plates, “This lemon with lemon curd, then lemon cake and strawberry jam – ”

Richie raises his brows, sparing a flat look to a criminally amused Bev while taking a bite of the lemon and raspberry. “Holy shit,” he mutters, looking back down to the plate. “Can you marry the cake – is that an option?”

“This one is funfetti cake with raspberry, because I know you’re like an eight-year-old,” Eddie continues, undeterred, continuing to point at every plate with a marked, slightly odd determination. “Then chocolate with raspberry, then chocolate with strawberry, chocolate with Baileys creme. This last one is some fancy strawberry cake with a _hazelnut_ spread, I guess? But apparently not Nutella.”

“So many cakes and like three little frostings,” Richie says, peering at the tiny trio of colorful ramekins at the head of Eddie’s orderly ranks of cake.

“They do this thing where they don’t put much frosting on the outside,” Eddie says, taking a bite from the funfetti with a thoughtful look, then going for the chocolate raspberry, ultimately tipping his head back and forth while sliding both down the table to Richie. “So you can see the filling inside and it’s not too sweet. I was thinking that.”

“But the frosting is the best part,” Richie protests, pouting while ignoring the cakes to instead steal a pink ramekin labeled _raspberry whip_ , exchanging his fork for a spoon to go for a scoop.

Eddie rolls his eyes, then predictably, adorably scrunches his face when Richie sticks out his frosting-coated tongue.

“I want to try – ” Bev says, with a seeking hand, into which Richie reluctantly places the ramekin; it is, technically, her and Ben’s appointment.

“They still do _some_ to seal crumbs, I guess?” Eddie says, eyes following the ramekin for a beat before returning to Richie’s face. “Don’t whine.”

Richie pointedly exhales an actual whine, retaking his fork with a theatrical dip of his shoulders while stabbing into the chocolate raspberry. He kind of gets it, though only grudgingly; the cakes so far are really rich, the fillings just as much so, but he doesn’t want to admit to Eddie that he might have a point, even when he takes a bite of the chocolate and Baileys crème, which he feels by the sidelong look was included just to make the point.

“Okay, _fine_ ; what about full frosting on just top tier?” Richie says, glancing to the side to take a bite of some kind of swirly red velvet thing when Bev offers it with a slide down the table. He looks to Eddie to continue, waving his fork while passing him the marble cake. “Solid compromise, or – Oh! _Oh_ , you’d want to have two.”

Eddie blinks back, his fork falling slightly over the plate with a clink.

“Like the party – _reception_ cake,” Richie gestures to the side, tracing a big cake with his hands, then framing a markedly smaller one just to the left of it, “And then your own that like no one’s touched, but us – _you_ , I mean, you know. A clean cake. With extra frosting, maybe.”

Eddie, hilariously, peers seriously at the invisible cakes, then nods slowly while reaching out to start slowly stacking some of the empty plates between Ben and him. “Two cakes… two flavors.”

“ _Yes,_ you mad genius,” Richie says, feeling his grin widen and reaching out to clasp Eddie’s shoulder with his free hand, gesturing at the tragically long-empty, totally buried raspberry lemon plate. “Got to make the party cake lemon and raspberry, man – I’ll eat that shit with many fists.”

Eddie smiles oddly small, looking down while reaching for the last untouched plate of chocolate. “Yeah, I knew you’d like that one.”

“The baker actually said you can have all the tiers different flavors – we already talked about it,” Ben says, looking excited by the prospect, starting to gesture with his hands in the way he usually might about building an actual tower. “Fudge, then marble, then bottom is vanilla with that Bavarian cream.”

“Fudge,” Eddie mutters, a little derisively, but he takes the forkful when Ben picks up said cake to offer it. “That’s so _heavy_.”

“And salted caramel filling,” Bev adds, a curl of humor at the edge of her mouth while she leans forward to gesture at the ribbon winding through the slice. “The top is for _us_.”

Eddie presses his lips into a line while seeming to savor the cake, then his brows furrow together in exaggerated judgment. “You’re going to fall asleep at the reception.”

Bev breaks into a laugh, eyes rolling to a smiling Ben. “ _We_ don’t plan on eating it all at once, Eds.” She gestured with her chin at Richie, “Look to your right a little.”

“His favorite is like the lightest one at the table,” Eddie says, outright dismissive, mouth turned up at the corner in a familiar smile that Richie once classified as _fond_ in a particularly poetic burst of fantasy over twenty years ago. “He’s fine.”

“It might not be my favorite – the chocolate and raspberry is good too, and the funfetti…” Richie manages to drag his eyes away from Eddie to narrow them pointedly between the empty, labeled plates, then exaggeratedly stretches back in his chair with a groan and a gesture over his stomach. “I think I just really like raspberry jam.”

“Not the strawberry?” Bev asks, raising an eyebrow with a laugh in her voice.

Richie exhales a put-upon sigh, pushing what’s left of the strawberry jam and chocolate across the table to her grabby hands. “It’s just not raspberry.”

Eddie abruptly picks up the lone orange frosting still left on his side and drops it with a clink in front of Richie. “Here, try the mango frosting.”

Richie reaches out to pick up the offered frosting, sparing Eddie a curious look. “I thought you didn’t like mango.”

“I don’t,” Eddie says, nose scrunching when Richie offers his scoop, then putting both hands up and miming a push when Richie tries to shove the spoon in his face. “Stop! I just saw it on the list and knew you’d want to eat it.”

Richie lets up and pops the spoon into his mouth, immediately groaning at the familiar, wildly addictive sweet-tart taste; it’s almost like fucking _sorbet_. “Shit, _Eds_. Eddie, are you sure you don’t like mango? Because I just found me another edible spouse.”

“Pretty sure,” Eddie says, mouth pinching down over an evident grin while one eyebrow climbs high up his forehead. “Does this make you a polygamist or a murderer?”

Richie snorts and ultimately cracks up, nearly dropping the ramekin onto the table. “Shit, I don’t know?”

“So you’re not going to share that one?” Bev interjects, smirking when Richie turns to blink at her; it’s an expression that says she’s totally aware that he half-forgot Ben and she were at the table.

“Because _I_ like mango,” Ben says, spreading his hands with a beseeching look that can only be exaggerated.

“How much, Haystack?” Richie says, making a point to lick out the rest from the ramekin, and only a lifetime of embarrassing himself to hear that particularly strident laugh to the left of him keeps him from wincing when he catches the baker walking over with that same expression from earlier flicking in his direction.

“ _Hi all_ – how’s our happy couple?” The baker greets, hands clasping at their back while they peer between Bev and Ben with a friendly smile. “I noticed you’ve finished most of your samples! I was wondering if you’d like to discuss your options now or sleep on them?”

“We’re great! And we’d _love_ to now,” Bev says, a mild, neutral smile across her face, briefly looking back at Richie with a somewhat baffling shrink of her expression into a smirk. “But first, we saw that you made edible decorations?”

“Yes! I’ve got some commissions still in the shop, plus a few examples of edible flowers,” the baker says, gesturing over their shoulder with a sweep of their fingers toward a broad display case humming against a wall. “Would you like me to bring them to your table?”

“No, it’s fine,” Bev says, reaching out and grabbing Ben’s hand at the same moment she stands from her chair. “We can come to you.”

“We were thinking something simple?” Ben says, as he follows, nearly tripping over his chair and exhaling a laugh when Bev demonstrably tugs him a little harder up from the table.

“Oh,” the baker blinks, plainly startled, but eagerly backs up with a recovering expression when Bev gestures for them to proceed to the back of the shop.

“What about us?” Richie asks, spreading his hands at the almost pointed lack of invitation and shooting Eddie a pout when Bev blindly waves off the question. “I’m starting to get the feeling she doesn’t value our opinions.”

“You’d just tell them to put one of those misogynist ones with the bride dragging the groom.”

“How dare you?” Richie says, dropping his brows in an exaggerated scold, though that _is_ maybe the image that immediately comes to mind when he thinks of cake toppers. “We’re not trying to recreate your first wedding, Spaghetti.”

Eddie surprisingly doesn’t react with an immediate, defensive snarl, but instead seems to think for a beat, then actually snorts, reaching out to start in on the last slice – the strawberry cake, which is a startling, almost alluring radioactive pink.

Richie takes a forkful if it and the creamy filling when Eddie offers, then gestures at his near-color-matched shirt. “Hey, man, did you plan this?”

Eddie drops his eyes, then rolls them, “Totally. My whole life centers around your gaudy shit.”

The taste is a surprise, nutty and rich crème pairing oddly, but not awfully, with a sweetness of strawberry. He hasn’t had strawberry cake before now, in a fancy version like this or from the box, nor any sort of hazelnut spread that wasn’t also chocolate, but he is definitely coming around to the appeal of them together.

“The hazelnut stuff is actually really good,” Richie says, going in for a second bite, then glancing over to Bev when she laughs loud enough he can hear her across the room. He sees her smiling up at Ben, standing besotted over cake toppers, and feels something complicated and warm in his heart when he looks back to Eddie with a grin. “Yowza. And strawberry cake is dope - why’ve I never had it?”

“ _I_ don’t fucking know,” Eddie huffs, taking another bite, then turning over his own fork with a thoughtful look at the tines. “Private cake?”

“Totally,” Richie says, refusing to examine why he suddenly feels so pleased; he tries to distract himself by reaching out and flicking at the now-clean plate, then diverts on a whim and picks up the empty ramekin labeled mango. “And like just a gallon tub of this shit, too.” He drops into a creaky, southern Voice, “I could put that shit on everything.”

* * *

Richie finds himself on his phone a few days later, slumped in front of an ancient episode of Law and Order while searching cake toppers and pretending it’s for Bev. He scrolls through a lot of the cliché designs: stiff posed brides and grooms, making out brides and grooms, brides dragging _brides_ – excuse you, Eddie.

But then there are a lot of just _weird_ ones: gendered sculptures of landmarks, a pair of cats, a portrait of American Gothic but it’s a bride and groom in Canucks jerseys… It gets to a point that he _has_ to show Eddie when he finds a pair of cowboy boots painted like the Texas flag, one bearing a little black cowboy hat and the other a white cowboy hat veil.

“No!” Eddie shouts from his office, laughter briefly breaking between his words. “What the fuck?”

“How about – ” Richie yells back, then sends a pair of t-rex in a little tuxedo and gown. “Jurassic Park?”

“Where did you find this shit?” Eddie says, appearing at the head of the hall with a pointed wave of his phone.

“This little thing called the internet,” Richie says, sweeping to the next tab, copying a link and pasting it into Eddie’s chat window. “You want to see a couple of cocks?”

“Richie, I don’t – ” Eddie pauses, his expression twisting up just before his voice cracks with a laugh. “Jesus fuck, it’s actual chickens.”

“Don’t you just love it,” Richie says, putting on a raspy, effeminate Voice, looking back to his phone and scrolling through a few more pages. He pauses at what is clearly a couple of wine corks fashioned as, bafflingly, little dogs in wedding attire, then sends that one, too. “Just ad _ora_ ble.”

Eddie snorts quietly, wandering into the kitchen while pressing at his phone. He pauses with his hand half on a fridge handle, then pulls open the door while dropping the phone to his side. “Don’t drink enough wine.”

“Do we _have_ wine?” Richie asks, standing from the sofa with a stretch of his back and drifting over to look across the island at Eddie. “I could do wine – hm, maybe a soft, oaky red.”

“Just… saying words, aren’t you,” Eddie mutters, brow furrowed at his phone while he answers, attention staying that way throughout his quest for organic soda. He hums lowly, turning while dropping the can onto the counter with a clunk, then leaning into it at the hip instead of looking for a glass.

“Find something interesting?” Richie asks, raising a brow while leaning a little to catch that Eddie’s now scrolling on the website.

“Actually,” Eddie says, leaning forward while shoving his phone under Richie’s nose. “Yeah.”

“Well, _well_ ,” Richie says, dropping his eyes with a click of his tongue.

The topper is a wire sculpture that, in looping yet modest script, spells out _you &me_. The simple sight of it inspires a flutter at the back of Richie’s throat and a hard swallow, as he can too easily imagine it atop a sparsely frosted lemon and raspberry cake, where it somehow comes off as less like a decoration and more like a promise.

Eddie pulls his phone back into his chest with a sharp clear of his throat. “I know that it’s not like – ”

“It’s great!” Richie interrupts, looking up with a deep inhale and nodding a few times, feeling heat sear across his nose when he catches Eddie’s eyes. “It’s – no, it’s good. Perfect.”

“Yeah?” Eddie says, a smile stretching across his mouth.

“Yeah,” Richie says, his voice pitching outside of his control and suddenly feeling exposed while Eddie just keeps smiling, his dark-eyed stare seeming deep, like it’s seeing straight through into Richie’s wanting heart. “Yeah, man. Just uh, romantic as shit – anyone’d be happy to steal that with the first piece of cake.”

Eddie shakes his head, finally looking away while exhaling a laugh. “You’re supposed to keep the first slice in the freezer to eat on your anniversary, dipshit.”

“Fuck that,” Richie says, leaning further over the island with a stretch of his arms and peeking over his frames at a fuzzier, less formidable figure of Eddie. “Just get an ice cream cake and pretend.”

Eddie hums like he’s considering it, then the tone drops with a denial. “Sounds like an impatient person’s excuse to eat ice cream.”

“You are the most impatient person I know, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says, half-raising a finger to wag it.

“Fuck off,” Eddie says, taking a markedly careful breath, then suddenly he’s leaning down closer to Richie in a way that is somehow heavy, his fuzziness clearing and becoming that much more daunting. “Maybe I’m done being patient.”

“Oh yeah?” Richie croaks, feeling a hesitant smile at the corner of his mouth.

Eddie drops a little further until his elbows hit the granite, the line of his arm solid and warm against Richie’s own; his eyes are clear again this close, soft and amused, then there’s another shift forward until his breath is palpable against Richie’s lips just as he closes his eyes and –

_‘You must think I'm a joke_

_I ain't gonna be part of your system_

_Maaan! Pump –’_

“Shit, fuck,” Richie yelps, scrambling to silence his aggressively shouting phone. He feels a flush up his neck that’s some awful mix of annoyed and self-conscious, acutely aware that Eddie’s retreated back against the other counter, similarly flushed and fucking stunning, and could just _murder_ his publicist. “I – I have dinner with Jin. The Halloween special.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, wetting his lips with his eyes fixed firmly down at the counter.

“Do you, uh – you want to come?” Richie asks, swallowing shallowly, rubbing his hands together for a beat before forcing them flat again on the granite; act normal, just act totally normal. “We’re going to Âu Lạc. He’s on a vegan kick.”

“No, I have – ” Eddie points with his thumb toward his office, eyes markedly flickering back and forth from Richie to the hall. “Some work, sort of. Mike’s got me looking into an indemnification clause for his farm. I guess the current caretakers had some losses.”

Richie makes a show of slumping on his feet with a low groan, drooping his eyes before opening them back up wide. “Oh my god… sorry, I almost just fell asleep.”

“Just get the fuck out,” Eddie snaps, reaching out and grabbing at his previously forgotten soda, miming throwing it at Richie’s chest. “Bring me back some spring rolls.”

Richie gives a couple of half-hearted finger-guns in Eddie’s direction, drifting toward the door with a slump of his shoulders once he turns the corner into the entry. He startles slightly when his phone buzzes in his hand, looking down to see Jin is texting him – likely as a subtle reminder of their meeting.

5:34PM‘are you getting married lol? Fan recognized you at a bakery **https://www.twitter.com/kriner_bakes/status/1314476385625284610** ’ >>

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Some visuals of the cake toppers!](https://twitter.com/ezlebe/status/1316933892163702787?s=20)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, what about a taco bar?”
> 
> “No,” Eddie denies flatly, not even turning sideways to deign Richie with a look.
> 
> “For what?” Bill asks, looking over to Richie from his plate with a blink and a bemused twist to his mouth.
> 
> “The reception,” Richie says, jabbing his knife pointedly at Eddie in a vaguely stabbing motion. “Also, why not? It’d be awesome.”
> 
> Eddie shakes his head. “No.”
> 
> Bill slowly follows the gesture to Eddie, then turns to narrow his eyes to Bev, who waves him off with a grin and a bite of her lamb. “Wait, whose reception?”

Eddie drags them all, plus Bill, to some Eastern European place calling itself _innovative_ a week later under the guise of catering, though Richie would bet money he just had to make himself an excuse to act out a Napoleon complex. The place is a little uncomfortably fancy, the portions just shy of too small, and Richie is mildly bitter that he’s not getting to choose his own orders, even though he doesn’t even know what he’d order off a menu without descriptions _or_ pictures.

He slices off another bite of his tiny entrée with a sigh; he hadn’t really been listening that close to Eddie’s brief, rapid fire crisis on getting this lamb versus the apparent usual beef, so is really only aware that it’s some kind of stuffed meat roll up covered in vaguely sour sauce. It’s not that lamb is bad, exactly, he just thinks it’s not _enough_ for a normal size person and is really kind of too stuffy for him – them. No, just _Eddie_. “Hey, what about a taco bar?”

“No,” Eddie denies flatly, not even turning sideways to deign Richie with a look.

“For what?” Bill asks, looking over to Richie from his plate with a blink and a bemused twist to his mouth.

“The reception,” Richie says, jabbing his knife pointedly at Eddie in a vaguely stabbing motion. “Also, why _not_? It’d be awesome.”

Eddie shakes his head. “ _No_.”

Bill slowly follows the gesture to Eddie, then turns to narrow his eyes to Bev, who waves him off with a grin and a bite of her lamb. “Wait, whose reception?”

“Eddie’s, duh,” Richie says, dropping his knife to his empty plate while taking his final bite with a piece of mashed potato. “He’s the one who said no.”

“Yeah, well,” Bill says, briefly glancing to Eddie before fixing a flat look at Richie. “He probably w-wo-would’ve anyway.”

Eddie exhales a hostile scoff. “Fuck off,”

“Good point, but also, no,” Richie says, lifting his hand up to the side of his face as a way of blocking Eddie’s glare, while also pretending to whisper to Bill. “Why did you think _Eddie_ was making everyone order what he wants?”

“Shut up,” Eddie says, reaching out with a flat fist to thump lightly against Richie’s thigh.

“What? I…” Bill takes a breath, gesturing at the various empty plates across the table with his fork. “Is this not for Bev and B-Ben’s catering? We’ve been… been talking about catering this whole time.”

“ _I_ wanted to try these guys,” Eddie says, gesturing around the restaurant with his fork and a pointed roll of his eyes. “Bev and Ben are going boring ass chicken and vegan from that place they go to every Thursday in WeHo.”

Bill looks down for a beat, two fingers tapping at his fork, then clears his throat while again turning to peer at Eddie. “Wait. So… so, the two cakes that y- _you_ were talking about – ”

“His, yeah,” Bev says, crossing her silverware over her plate, then reaching for her wine with a pointed gesture at Ben. “We’re doing a three tier, multi-flavor thing. It has Bavarian cream, you’ll like it.”

Bill blinks a few times and opens his mouth, before slowly closing it with an odd tilt of his head.

“But back to the tacos,” Richie says, waving briskly in front of Eddie’s face to force him to give his attention back. “ _Have them_. All you can eat even.”

“I’m waiting for a better argument,” Eddie says flatly, crossing his arms with a meaningful lean back in his chair.

“Argument?” Richie says, spreading his own hands and gesturing wide in an exaggerated show of disbelief, looking over to Bev and Ben, who are barely paying attention, then to Bill, who’s more obviously incredulous by the way his eyes go back and forth between them. “Tacos are _good_. A bunch of different salsas and fillings, so people can choose – ”

“That’s a buffet!” Eddie snaps, eyes sharply narrowing, as he waves his finger at Richie with the hand not currently holding a fork over his snooty rolled up lamb. “You _know_ I hate buffets.”

“It is not, it’s a _taco bar_ ,” Richie says, voice thinning out a little when he belatedly realizes that there’s probably no way for him to win this fight; it’s totally a buffet, god _damn_ it. “It’s way different.”

“How!? The food is out in the open and every fucking person who passes touches it or breathes on it while making their shit!”

“Guys, getting kind of loud,” Ben says, his polite, nice boy smile a little frozen at a passing waiter; somehow, he’s still not used to the entire restaurant staring when they go out in groups.

“Eddie, you _have_ to,” Richie says, dropping his voice for Ben while deciding his ‘argument’ is just going to be begging, an angle that historically works far more often on Eddie than actually trying to offer good reasons – and there are none in this case except he just really wants it. “Please. With halibut? You loved that time we fried halibut.”

“Lamb roulade and _fried fish_?” Bill says, his voice raising with a lilt of skepticism toward the end.

“Hush,” Bev says, briefly looking away from Ben seemingly just to wave her fork in scold.

“Figure out a better way than an open air spread every guest fucking infects,” Eddie says, dropping his arms to the table with a huff, “And maybe.”

Richie grins wide, a little honestly startled – is Eddie really agreeing to it? “Oh, hey, what about rehearsal dinner – fewer people? We could have a chef do it like Qdoba?”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Eddie repeats, eyes going briefly narrower and intense, but not saying much else one way or the other. He stands from the table, taking the napkin from his lap and actually throwing it at Richie. “You’re lucky I need to piss.”

Richie snorts back, tempted to throw it in return, but Eddie is already bee-lining for the dim hall near the entrance. Okay, so that ended at a point where Richie isn’t sure if it was a _total_ shut down or a white flag. He’ll have to revisit it, maybe over some wine and a distracting, flashy movie… or a game, if he has to; it’s a little underhanded, but one must know how to work Eddie to get his way.

“Is he _really_ s-seriously doing this now?” Bill says, leaning forward over the table at the moment Eddie is presumed out of hearing, eyes darting back and forth across the table. “I thought tha-that tweet was exaggerating. What if whoever he marries doesn’t like – w-what did he say he chose, lemon cake? Or l-lamb.”

“He should get what he wants, it’s his wedding,” Richie says, hoping that Bill won’t point out that _he’s_ been playing along so much as to be the one who caught the attention in said tweet; that he’s just entrenched in the dumb fantasy. He’s been getting enough suggestive looks from the happy couple across the table to last him a goddamn lifetime.

“But not just his,” Bill says, exhaling a weirdly confrontational breath, as if Eddie’s bogus reception planning in any way effects _him_ at all. “He can’t say he has… has everything a-al-already set up after he pops the question, then he’s not really any be-better than his wife was.”

“ _Ex_ -wife.” Richie corrects with a mutter, feeling his shoulders hunch.

“Honestly, we’re glad to have him get so into it,” Bev adds, reaching out and briefly wrapping her hand around Richie’s wrist before retaking her fork with a short chuckle. “Kind of feels like we’re putting together a joint ceremony thing, you know? Like the baker said.”

“Sure, but I just think, as someone who has ha- _had_ a wedding,” Bill pauses, looking meaningfully to Richie, because he’s Billiam, King of Know-It-Alls, who is definitely about to mention that Richie has been willfully enabling pretty much all of it. “He should… wait to make the decisions with his f-future fiancé, right? Not Ri- _Richie_ , no matter how cute the internet thinks it is.”

Richie stares back a beat, trying to be defiant, but there’s a sharp pain building just behind his sternum, like something has embedded into the bone. He manages to force a shrug, then a nod, pretending to look down with any concern at all for his mostly empty plate.

“Enough, Bill,” Ben says, wearing an uncharacteristically deep frown while he jabs at his last piece of lamb.

“What?” Bill asks, gesturing up with a swing of his fork in apparent honest confusion. “Why are y- _you_ disagreeing with me?”

Richie makes a decision and executes it in a short, emphatic jerk in his chair, hastily reaching into his pocket with a wide blink. “Shit, I have to –” He lifts up his categorically silent phone, making sure to both look at and hide the screen while grimacing in irritation. He stands from the table, putting the phone to his ear while taking a few steps toward the door with a pointed sigh. “Hey, Steve? …Yeah, no, a couple minutes.”

“Stan will agree with me,” Bill mutters, reaching down and pulling out his own phone with a pinch between his brows.

“Richie, wait,” Bev says, head lifting and following him with her eyes.

Richie waves her off with a brief, stressed gesture toward the door, but she promptly levels him with a pressed mouth expression, so maybe his acting isn’t all that that decent. He’s kind of having some trouble _trying_ at the moment, though, half-fantasizing an entirely teenage desire to shove stuck-up Bill over in his chair and run away – only _half_ fantasizing, because he is for sure running away.

“Rich?” Eddie says, emerging from the bathroom and blinking while he goes past, one hand swinging up like he’s going to try and grab him.

Richie does want to stop, he _really_ wants to stop, but he keeps walking until he’s faking his call _outside_ in front of some stupid sensible sedan. He looks briefly at his car, top down but keys firmly in Eddie’s possession, and exhales hard, faking an aggressive hang-up entirely for himself, then slumps down onto a parking block while scratching his hands through his hair, trying not to get even more worked up about a - a fucking thought exercise – and not even his _own_. Technically. He’s just getting caught up in suits and venues, cakes and main dishes, fantasizing that Eddie is considering his opinion with more worth than he really is, though… though he _has_ been –

“Fuck,” Richie mutters, squeezing his elbows in and out while pulling at his roots.

He wishes he hadn’t played along so much, at least, because he for sure doesn’t know what’s going through Eddie’s head at fucking all. He just knows that right now all he can think about is Eddie doing all this shit that he helped to choose without _him._

Thanks a fucking million, Big Bill.

“ – about how you think _what_?” Eddie snaps, his voice breaking through the silence loud and clear. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Richie blinks and looks up, eyes widening at the sight of an open window.

“Did it not occur to you that maybe I fucking was?” Eddie continues, clearly reacting to something Bill had said at a normal, human volume; he goes quiet, and a murmuring is heard, unintelligible, in the space of his pause. “Uh huh, sure, except I told you I did when I was fifteen – it was a traumatic as fuck experience, are you telling me your fucking forgot?”

Bill says something that Richie is pretty sure is placating, by the tone, and follows it up with something just loud enough to tell is a little too superior. It’s a bad move, and if Richie was in a less shitty mood, he’d yell in the window something like _strike one_.

Eddie exhales something that might be a laugh if it weren’t so derisive. “Oh, just say that to Ben’s face – no, no, I said turn your fucking head and say it to _both_ of them. Or, oh, is it different because we’re gay?”

Richie is pretty sure he hears a bird dying, an uneven sort of squeaking into a croak, before he realizes the noise came from him.

Bill’s response this time is even less audible.

“You goddamn better be, fuck,” Eddie says, his voice rising and shifting while he moves around inside the room. He’s loud right near the window for a few seconds, and his probable accompanying angry gesture is almost audible. “If he left, I’m going to be so pissed at you.”

Richie hunches into the cradle of his arms with a weak chuckle, disbelieving, and scrubs his hands through his hair. He soon hears the airy sound of the door, then familiar brusque footsteps; he peeks up when they echo out in the lot, seeing that Eddie is skipping the sidewalk entirely to go for the car.

“Eds,” Richie calls, a little reluctant, a little expectant, feeling color warming his cheeks; _maybe I was_ echoes determinedly between his ears.

“Richie!” Eddie says, whipping around on a heel with his brows going high up his forehead, then furrowing in deep. “Shit, _hey_. I, uh– I need to talk to you.”

Richie does his best to smile back, feeling it tug awkwardly at the corner of his mouth a little too high. “Got to move, first,” he says, forcing himself up from the parking block with a quiet groan.

Eddie follows the movement with a marked lift of his eyes, mouth curling downward with a frown. “Why?”

Richie tips his head back and forth, then glances to the window with an exaggerated grimace and a pointed finger. He can still hear the murmuring of the others, not quite coherent, but he knows they would be able to hear Eddie just as clearly from in there as he had out here.

Eddie follows the direction with a slow collapse of his expression, a flush bursting up across his neck and into his cheeks. “Well, fuck.”

Richie shoves his hands in his pockets with a shrug forward, stepping sideways and catching an incongruous stone garden bench on the other side of the lot. He nudges Eddie quickly before walking toward it, feeling too nervous to look him directly in the face; he wishes, suddenly, he hadn’t admitted to hearing anything. He _thinks_ he knows what he heard, but what if he hadn’t – what if Eddie wasn’t referring to Bev and Ben’s whole starry-eyed saga, specifically, what if he was just… talking about planning weddings?

He settles into the bench with a hard swallow, tucking one leg under, and briefly squeezes at the cap of one knee before forcing his hands lax into his lap. He feels suspended and on the verge of running all at once, stalling out while trying desperately to think of a single shitty joke, but even that fails him.

“You need to say something, man,” Eddie says, his voice markedly thin, sitting down next to Richie on the sun-warmed stone. “You’re freaking me out.”

Richie exhales a faltering laugh. “ _Me_?”

Eddie makes a frustrated noise, hands dropping to wrap around the edge of the bench. “How much did you hear?”

“Just you, mostly,” Richie says, scraping his teeth over his bottom lip and staring down at the white-knuckled hand next to his thigh. “You’re always turned up to eleven.”

“Richie,” Eddie says, warningly, his voice raising almost like he’s joining the joke.

“I don’t fucking know, Eds,” Richie says, risking a glance up and seeing Eddie staring back at him, expression guarded but eyes doing that stupid sad calf thing that has always made Richie crumble to pieces. “Because it… I guess it sort of sounded like you told Bill you wanted to marry _me_?”

Eddie rolls said eyes hard, though it seems more at himself than Richie, judging by the way he turns his focus to the ground. “Shit, Richie, why else do you think I’d want you to – to be part of it? With me.”

“You didn’t say,” Richie says, hearing a creak in his voice and trying to distract from it with a jerky gesture of both hands out in front of him.

“I thought I was,” Eddie says, a little defensive, as his hand shifts on the bench and nudges up firmer against Richie’s thigh, not quite making a move, but at least halfway to one. “I didn’t want to push it, I guess. I know talking about being out still makes you nervous,” he says, voice dropping into a deep sigh. “And I’m not any better. We’ve both chickened out almost kissing thirty fucking times, like we’re still kids.”

“Couldn’t even get to almost, back then,” Richie mutters, staring at a leaf stuck in a crack on the sidewalk. “Maybe by the time we’re seventy.”

He tenses when he sees Eddie’s hand move and feels it touch at his jaw, swallowing shallow while he turns his head to follow; he knows exactly what’s coming, he practically asked for it, but it still startles him when Eddie’s lips press soft into his own. He answers the kiss with a brief turn and drop of his jaw, lifting his hand to shakily curl it around Eddie’s shoulder, holding him close, though it ends chaste with Eddie’ pulling back after only moments.

“Eds,” Richie exhales, keeping his eyes closed in an attempt to stay chill, but he soon gives up and opens them with an unsteady joke at the tip of his tongue. “Good rehearsal.”

Eddie narrows his eyes, then rolls them, leaning in again and outright shoving Richie back into the bench while retaking his mouth. It’s more desperate than their first, restraint markedly gone, as Eddie’s tongue slips in smoothly against Richie’s, hands yanking against his shirt to press them in closer.

Richie leans into the grip while answering with a groan, a curl of his own tongue, then wrapping his hand tighter at Eddie’s nape, only to startle when he hears an engine turn over, remembering they’re outside, in public, on a complimentary bench in front of an upscale restaurant. He thinks it’s a sign of personal growth that he doesn’t panic at the realization, instead idly wondering if he’s famous enough to earn an article on JustJared for this particular instance of Eddie meeting his dare, rather than just a mention in the corner.

“Really going to slut it up for Grandpa Went, Eds?” Richie asks, a little embarrassed by how hard he’s breathing and the overeager semi in his board shorts, though both do make him feel younger, which is something, or that could just be the fact he’s just lived something of a teenage fantasy; six of one, half dozen of the other.

“Do you still call him that?” Eddie says, standing from the bench with a sharp exhale, almost a laugh. He turns on his heel with a dipped head in a nearly flatteringly bad attempt to hide his own flush. “Does he still call you Dickie for it?”

“He’s an actual grandpa now!” Richie says, bounding up behind Eddie and knocking into his shoulder. “And he might – let’s not talk about it. Or let him make a speech at the rehearsal dinner.”

Eddie abruptly pauses mid-step to turn, staring a beat, then takes Richie’s jaw firmly back in hand and presses a smacking kiss to the soft part of his cheek. “Dipshit.”

Richie feels a little bit like he’s going to explode, sharply clearing his throat. “Unconventional, but I’ll considerate it.”

“Shut up, come on,” Eddie says, his hand dropping and briefly wrapping around Richie’s palm to squeeze, holding on until he lets go to open the door. “I want you to taste the beet soup.”

“Not to be like, that guy,” Richie says, lowering his voice as they enter the restaurant, eyes on the far wall with their sectioned-off table. “But you don’t really want a joint wedding with Bev and Ben, right?”

“Fuck no, we want completely different things,” Eddie says, his rebuff somehow comforting, probably because he sounds completely serious. “They chose a fucking fudge cake, Richie.”

Richie tips his head back and forth, like he’s thinking, then smirks with Eddie offers a narrow glare. “Lemon _is_ better,” he says, moving to the side while a server slips past bearing a pair of colorful fruit sundaes. “Can we get ice cream?”

“Now or – ?” Eddie pauses, gaze briefly following the server where Richie points, then glancing up to him fully with a shrug. “We should go get soft serve, though.”

“Yes, holy _shit_ ,” Richie says, lifting his hands to mime widely around his temples. “You’re in my head, Eds.”

“Thank fuck I am not,” Eddie snorts quietly, rolling his eyes back to the table of Losers in front of them. He lowers his voice almost to a mumble just before they’re in range, “Maybe we can stop by a taco truck, too.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Richie says, wondering if it would be too soon to assure Eddie that he is for sure in his head 24/7/365.

Bill actually stands when they approach, hands nervously releasing a wretchedly twisted napkin. “Richie, I – ”

“It’s cool, Big Bill,” Richie says, dropping into his chair with a slump he hopes looks pointed, feeling Eddie’s hand slide across the breadth of his shoulders while passing to his own seat. “Let’s never talk about it.”

Bill is determined, as ever, sincerity almost cloying. “I just want you to feel comfortable –”

“Thirty years and a murder clown too late, there, Billem Dafoe,” Richie interrupts, clearing his throat and doing his best to ignore the collective stare of the others at the table. He focuses instead on the conspicuously pink soup that was set at his place sometime between freaking about Eddie getting remarried and finding out _he’s_ been engaged for some time between a month and twenty-five years. “It’s fine. Eddie’s going to get me an ice cream later, if I promise to be good.”

Eddie makes a show of rolling his eyes, but it does little to hide the crook of his smile.

“I a _-am_ sorry,” Bill says, quietly, his voice thinning out a little with lingering unease.

Richie makes a point to ignore him, sipping at the cold soup when he risks a glance over to see Eddie simply regarding him with raised brows and evident expectation. He grunts a beat later, looking down at the spoon in confusion; okay, so he’s apparently supposed to have actual feedback and he actually sort of does? “Did Mrs K make this, like, once?”

“Oh, yeah,” Eddie says, smile shrinking, looking abashed at being caught out. “When she still cooked. And you were still allowed over.”

“Huh,” Richie says, taking another, fuller spoonful. He doesn’t normally _have_ cold soup, because it’s usually weird, but he can see where Eddie was going with this and the lamb. “Tangy.”

“You’re not really going to do a joint wedding, right?” Bill asks abruptly, leaning over his own soup with a peer back and forth and a concerned furrow of his brow.

“ _No_.” Eddie and Ben respond at the same time, wearing absurdly identical expressions of denial.

Richie slowly raises a brow, sliding his eyes sideways to a snickering Bev while loudly slurping his soup.

* * *

“Hey,” a voice says, breaking easily through the fog of Richie’s doze, familiar and somehow a little comforting in its piercing tone. “ _Hey_ , Rich.”

“Hm?” Richie hums, peeking open his eyes to catch Eddie standing at the side of the hammock; he glances past him, then out over the deck and toward the pool, blearily realizing it’s no longer the afternoon. He stretches against the hammock, sitting up a little, but mostly just waiting for Eddie to inevitably bully in next to him. “Hey-o, monkey suit. You done squandering your retirement for the day?”

Eddie oddly doesn’t even put on a show of being offended, simply stripping off his blazer with a short shake of his head. “Move, dickhead.”

Richie swings an arm up and looks at his empty wrist. “No, no, I don’t think my ten minutes are quite – ”

“Shut up,” Eddie interrupts, squeezing in next to Richie with a quiet chuckle, making quickly apparent that his weird mood is here to stay for the night. “You’ve been out here for hours.”

“Show me your proof,” Richie says, gesturing over his body with a sweep of his hand and fairly sure that he’s not red like a lobster, but not positive about it – he had _definitely_ fallen asleep in the sun and now that’s mostly gone.

“Okay, so don’t freak, but – ” Eddie brusquely grabs Richie’s hand out of the air, shoving something into it with a harsh exhale. “Just… Here.”

Richie looks down at his hand, opening his mouth, only for a discordant hum of static between his ears to prevent him from actually saying a word. He looks up from the _ring box_ to Eddie’s anxious face and then back down, feeling his leg start to jump with nerves and threatening to upend the hammock. “W _hat_ is – ? Is… Wait. Is this… _Eddie_?”

“I was going to do something, but then I saw you out here and…” Eddie takes a breath, hand wrapping tight around Richie’s thigh to still him, tight and a little searing against the bare skin. He reaches out with his other hand, popping the box open with his thumb. “And I guess it just felt right to do it now.”

Richie blinks a few times upon first sight of the ring, part of him determined to be skeptical, despite the evidence in front of him fashioned in rose gold. It’s split in two parts, the lower ring matte with an evident line of diamonds, while the upper half bears a surface that is uneven, split in ways that remind him of bark; of the woods; of sitting in a clubhouse beneath the trees hollowed out and held up by rough lumber. He swallows hard, then exhales a shaky breath. “Holy shit, Eds.”

Eddie squeezes his thigh. “So?”

“Fuck – _yes_ , Eddie,” Richie says, feeling burning in his eyes and trying to shake it off with a laugh, gesturing weakly with the box. “It’s even the right gold.”

Eddie hums low and a little smug, which he’s totally allowed to feel for at least the next forever. “I saw the fit you had about the new iPhone.”

“Fuck off,” Richie huffs wetly, startling a little when Eddie takes back the ring to remove the diamond half of it from the box. His eyes finally start to spill over when Eddie actually takes his hand, slipping the ring on to show a perfect fit. “You asshole – you totally sprung this on me.”

Eddie disagrees with another squeeze of Richie’s leg and a shake of his head. “Not really.”

Richie wipes at his eyes with the back of his other hand, nearly losing his glasses. “No.”

“Hey,” Eddie says, fingers warm while they slip between Richie’s to squeeze between the knuckles, hard enough almost to hurt. “I love the fuck out of you, Rich.”

“Gross,” Richie says, sniffling again, for all the good it does when his eyes keep springing leaks all over the place. “I love you, too.”

“I know,” Eddie says, letting go of Richie’s thigh to pat softly over their held hands.

“And f- _fuck_ ,” Richie says, wiping his face again with the hem of his shirt while awkwardly gesturing to the other half of the ring still in the box. “It’s like a real engagement ring with – you know, the parts.”

Eddie picks up the box, hooking his leg around Richie’s knee with a shift further into the hammock. “Yeah, you have to marry me to get the other half.”

“I have to marry you to get _my_ other half,” Richie counters, swallowing thick and turning bodily to look at Eddie, curling into him until their positions are mirrored and merged by their held hands and bent legs.

“Sap,” Eddie says, exhaling a breath of a laugh while swinging his arm back to drop the ring box to the deck.

“Eddie, my love,” Richie sings, swiftly grabbing Eddie’s now freed hand to swing it above their sides like he might in a dance. “I love you so.”

Eddie’s next laugh breaks out louder and the resulting shake of his entire body causes a gratifying tremor of the hammock. “You’re so embarrassing.”

“ _You’re_ embarrassing,” Richie counters, folding their arms between them and leveraging Eddie in close to press a smacking kiss to his mouth. “You want to marry Trashmouth Tozier.”

Eddie chases briefly forward when Richie pulls back, then abruptly rolls on top of him, hammock swinging wildly, and pulls his hands away to instead use them to frame Richie’s face and loom over him with a soft, stunning grin. “Fuck off, _that’s_ not embarrassing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (For the record: Stan looked at the text, rolled his eyes, then re-locked his phone.)

**Author's Note:**

> I can also be found on twitter [ @ ezlebe](https://twitter.com/ezlebe?lang=en)


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